


Unhappy Holidays

by voxanonymi (spasmodicIntrigue)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Christmas Party, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Recurring Injury, no canonised tag for yuletide sadness? i wonder WHY??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 00:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17213405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spasmodicIntrigue/pseuds/voxanonymi
Summary: The deal was this: the Winter Solstice was three days from now, and, as per tradition, the Crown was hosting a banquet. It wasn’t just a fancy dinner, but a massive, televised event—and basically everything Noctis hated most about being royalty.The holidays are supposed to be a time of joy and festivities, but Noctis can't get into it. It's all too much, and the only thing he wants is to escape for a couple of hours.





	Unhappy Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, Christmas is well over, but technically this isn't about Christmas--it's about the Winter Solstice. Which is also over. But. Whatever. Yeah, I started writing this on the 23rd and it just kept getting longer.
> 
> The bright side of that is that it became my first prompt fill for my [Bad Things Happen Bingo](https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/) card. Yaaaay! The prompt was: "Crutches." You can find my card [here](https://voxanonymi.tumblr.com/post/181425807671/so-since-i-have-a-lot-of-internalised-anger-and). Gonna do my best to fill out more squares, and inflict lots of pain upon these wonderful innocent boys! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

“Arms up, please.”

Obligingly, if begrudgingly, Noctis raised his arms as high as the stiff dinner jacket would allow for. The sleeves rode halfway up his forearms.

The tailor pursed his lips. “Hm, yes, that won’t do. I was going to suggest longer shirtsleeves, but… no. I wouldn’t be surprised if the trousers have gotten a bit short in the leg as well.”

“I thought as much,” said Ignis, standing behind the tailor looking smug. “See, Noct? I told you you’d grown.”

“Okay, cool, you were right.” Noctis dropped his arms to his sides. “So now what?”

“We take measurements, and the Crown pays me a hefty rush-order fee to make you a new suit by the Solstice,” the tailor—Mr. Finley, an older man with a neat moustache—explained with a sly grin. He’d been tailoring Noctis’ formalwear for over a decade, and not once had he ever seemed cowed by royal presence, as so many other servants and tradesmen were. It was why Noctis preferred him over any of the “It” options he might find in boutiques on high street, full of fawning assistants who would tell him he looked wonderful regardless of what colourful, asymmetrical monstrosity they put him in. Mr. Finley at least had the decency to tell him when he looked ridiculous, while doing a good job at preventing that from happening in the first place.

Sometimes, though, Noctis just wasn’t in the mood to be treated like a living mannequin. Which was what getting fitted invariably felt like. He wished he would stop _growing_ already. He was eighteen! When would it end?

“It won’t be too much trouble, will it?” Ignis asked, as Mr. Finley rummaged around in his kit for a measuring tape.

“I’ve worked miracles before, and I can again,” said Mr. Finley. “Alright, take that off.”

Noctis shrugged out of the dinner jacket.

“That’s good to hear,” Ignis said, stepping forward to take the jacket from Noctis, neatly replacing it on its coat hanger.

“Can’t you just… make the sleeves longer? Or something?” Noctis questioned. “The rest still fits fine.”

Mr. Finley and Ignis exchanged an amused glance—and maybe it shouldn’t have, but it sent up a spark of irritation in Noctis.

“Unfortunately, that’s not how it works, my boy,” said Mr. Finley, already moving Noctis’ arms about as he pleased, measuring shoulder to wrist. “I _could_ sew on cuff extensions, but they would look atrocious. Let’s leave the questionable fashion statements to the pop stars and attention seekers, shall we?”

“The press would have a fit,” Ignis added. He was looking at his phone, frowning. “Noct, I need to get going. An issue has arisen at the Citadel.”

“An… issue?”

He sighed. “They’ve run out of tinsel.”

“So hard to find good help these days,” Mr. Finley commented, right in Noctis’ ear as he reached around him to loop the measuring tape around his chest.

“Tell me about it,” Noctis deadpanned. The other two chuckled.

“Make sure to eat something for lunch once you’re done here,” Ignis continued. “And don’t forget that you need to be at the Citadel by two to approve the dining hall decorations, and I believe the kitchen were wanting to consult you about dessert menu options.”

Noctis groaned. “Can’t you do that? You know more about food and… _tinsel_ and stuff than I do.”

“It’s really better if you do it yourself, Noct.”

“Yeah, I know. It just seems a waste of time.”

“It’s all in the spirit of merriment.”

“All in the spirit of being a pain in the ass.”

The deal was this: the Winter Solstice was three days from now, and, as per tradition, the Crown was hosting a banquet. It wasn’t just a fancy dinner, but a massive, televised event, featuring press furore, crowds hanging around outside the Citadel, exaggerated drama over who was or wasn’t invited, and basically everything Noctis hated most about being royalty—and there was _plenty_ to hate.

Now that Noctis was eighteen, the festive tradition was for him to be in charge of—and personally involved in—the yuletide event planning. Although, even if he weren’t eighteen, it’d probably be foisted upon him anyway, since his father had been knocked flat by flu this past month.

For weeks now Noctis had been embroiled in inane tasks such as choosing placemat designs; styles of napkin folding; sets of cutlery and tableware; tablecloths; seat cushion embroidery. You name it. He’d also had to sign each and every invitation personally—close to five hundred of them, which his wrist hadn’t exactly thanked him for.

Simply put: it sucked.

Not that he didn’t have help. The Citadel staff did most of the actual work, and obviously Ignis, who seemed to thrive in organisational situations, did more than his fair share. Even Gladio was helpful when it came to picking out a band. They’d all sounded the same to Noctis.

He hadn’t seen Prompto at all in at least a week, though he’d of course made sure his best friend was invited to the banquet—as Noctis’ personal photographer, if nothing else. Prompto liked to joke about it, but, depressingly, the photos probably _would_ sell for a mint.

It was all completely insane. Noctis couldn’t stop thinking about how _pointless_ it was to even celebrate the Solstice. There was this whole ceremonial thing about lighting a lantern to keep the year’s longest night at bay and protect them from daemons. The lamps would stay lit all night, of course, because it would be pointless if they didn’t, but it was pointless anyway because they were surrounded by city lights—and the city itself was protected by the wall. There hadn’t been daemons in Insomnia for hundreds of years.

Noctis had seen daemons with his own eyes only once in his life, ten years ago. It wasn’t something he liked to think about, but the approach of the Solstice had an odd way of reminding him.

He’d had an unsettling dream last night. He was standing in front of a massive pane of glass, looking out over the barren lands outside the city wall. In the distance, a dark, writhing, indistinct form loomed closer. Closer. Closer.

Compelled to, he looked behind him to see his father lying in bed, holding out a hand, calling him forward, but when Noctis tried to step towards him, he found himself on the wrong side of the glass. He couldn’t get to his father, and there was nothing but shrinking distance between Noctis and the daemon.

Regis tried to get out of bed to come to Noctis, to help him, but his limbs were feeble; soft and spindly. He was withered and pale and dust-ridden and could do nothing but crumple into an exhausted heap by the bed.

The dream had woken him earlier than he would have preferred, after waking several times through the night already. So Noctis was especially tired today. It didn’t improve his already shitty mood.

“Alright, then.” Mr. Finley finally stopped manhandling Noctis and started coiling up the measuring tape. “I’m assuming you want everything to be black, as always?”

“I guess,” said Noctis, flopping down on the couch—which was a relief, after standing so still for so long. “I don’t know. You’re the designer, do what you want.”

“So, if I wanted to put you in a corn-yellow jacket…”

“No.”

“Yes, I suppose it wouldn’t suit your disposition.”

 

Once Mr. Finley had packed up and been seen to the door, it was after midday. Noctis was expected at the Citadel by two, and since it took about fifteen minutes to get there from his apartment, he had about an hour to himself. To have lunch, or whatever, though he wasn’t hungry.

The idea of walking into the banquet hall with the Citadel house staff watching for his reaction wasn’t a comfortable one. Likely, he wouldn’t have any particular opinion about it, so he’d either have to fake a positive reaction—something which took far more energy and will than he currently possessed—or be honest about his lack of emotional response. Which would make him look like an asshole.

His breath caught in his throat as the familiar weight of _toomuchtoomuchtoomuch_ bore down on his shoulders. He was barely capable of dealing with his _actual_ feelings without having to produce fake ones, like a magician produces rabbits from hats. Your Highness, what do you think of this pear tart? Well, Chef, it tastes like pear tart. What the hell else was he supposed to say?

He wanted nothing more than to be able to escape that weight; the cesspit of his confused emotions; the dark fog of last night’s nightmares.

It occurred to him—if he really wanted to, he could. For a couple hours. He’d be late, but maybe faking his reactions would be easier if he could clear his head.

Yes. He needed to do it or he’d go crazy. Just a short walk. No destination. No plan. No worry. He’d wear his coat, of course, because it was freezing outside, but he wouldn’t take his phone. It would defeat the purpose of getting _away_.

His phone was nearly dead, anyway. He left it plugged in, grabbed his coat (and a scarf, in case it was windy), and laced on his best shoes for walking—which weren’t technically walking shoes. He took the elevator down and left through the parking garage so he wouldn’t have to face the concierge. He’d made sure to slip his keycard into his coat pocket so he would be able to get back into the building when he returned—again, without facing the concierge.

Winter was slow to ripen this year; the snow wasn’t expected for another week. But it was bitingly cold nonetheless, and as soon as the crisp air hit Noctis’ face and stung his eyes, he felt a swelling in his chest, around the cold, hard knot that had made its home there of late. An alleviation, of sorts.

He started walking—and made sure the Citadel was at his back.

 

Okay, so maybe it had been longer than a couple of hours, and maybe these shoes were starting to cause blisters, and maybe he was lost, and _maybe_ leaving his phone at home was a terrible idea.

Noctis didn’t know _exactly_ how long it had been, of course, because _he didn’t have his phone_ , but he was pretty sure it had been at least two hours. Judging purely by how much his feet hurt.

He found himself at a little park in one of the wealthier suburbs at the outskirts of the city proper. It wasn’t anything fancy, just some barren trees, a pond, and a playground. A young couple were pushing their two small children on the swing set, all four of them in festive hats. The father kept glancing over at Noctis. Whether he recognised him or just wondered what this dark-haired young man was doing sitting on the wet grass by the pond all alone, it was impossible to know.

Noctis trusted that the man would mind his own business. That was the thing about Insomnia: for the most part, people didn’t butt into strangers’ affairs. Unless you had some level of celebrity, of course, in which case every detail of your personal life was treated like public property. It was a toxic minority who acted that way, Noctis knew. But sometimes it was deafening.

The pond had yet to freeze over, but any ducks or frogs which might have called it home in warmer months had long since fled. To where? Noctis had no idea. The wind rippled the water’s grey surface. There was something indescribably lonely about it, which might have been what drew Noctis to its damp shore. Misery loves company.

He wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees. He couldn’t understand why he was like this. Why, when the whole city buzzed with anticipation and excitement, he was only filled with anxiety and hopelessness. And it wasn’t just the banquet planning, and it couldn’t be entirely because the anniversary of the daemon attack was only a few weeks ago. It was all on him. Something within him shrivelled a little more every time he heard a yuletide jingle, or saw a twinkling string of lights, or a pine tree wrapped in tinsel and laden with ornaments. As if there were a switch inside him flipped the wrong way, so that things meant to bring joy only brought dread, and then he felt even _worse_ thanks to the guilt from being the sour fruit when everyone— _everyone_ —was so hyped for the holidays.

It hadn’t always been this way, but it was getting worse every year.

The family left the park, with their laughing, happy, bouncy children. Despite himself, Noctis couldn’t help but smile as he watched the little boy tugging at his father’s coat, demanding to be picked up.

A lot of Noctis’ childhood was fuzzily remembered at best, but he had a very clear memory of the Solstice Banquet when he was only four. It was the first Solstice he had been old enough to attend. That is, old enough that he could be trusted not to make too much fuss at all the noise and people. It had been overwhelming, even so. Then again, crowds and noise were still overwhelming at eighteen.

He’d clung to his father’s leg the whole time, smiling at everyone who came up to say hello. Then, when it was time to light the lantern, Regis had lifted him up and let him do the honours. That year’s lamp had required nothing more than a tap to turn on, so it was perfectly child safe—unlike this year’s lamp, which very much required a real flame, which Noctis was very much expected to produce with a dramatic use of magic. It had not been his idea and he wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to it.

It may not have been cold enough for frozen ponds and snow, but it was cold enough to aggravate Noctis’ bad knee. Maybe the excessive walking had more of a hand in it than the cold, but either way, the ache was growing. Between that and the stinging blisters on his feet, Noctis wasn’t exactly having a pleasant time. But the pain was good, in a way. A strange sort of distraction from the constant leaden feeling in his stomach and chest.

He slowly got up, and while his knee twinged, it was his feet that were worse when he tried to walk—and not just the blisters, but his heels. These shoes were definitely not made for long-distance walking.

It was high time he figured out where he was and how to get home. He knew it, but he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about it. Why did he think it was a good idea to leave his phone behind? If he were slightly more normal, he might have had the guts to ask that family what suburb this was, but it would have taken an hour to hype himself up for it—and they were already gone, so it was a moot point.

The sky seemed to have darkened a little, but there was no way it was that late already. Maybe there was rain coming. Just Noctis’ luck, that would be. Perhaps that was why his knee ached so badly. It knew. To add to his discomfort, there was a wet patch on his ass from sitting on the ground—the water had soaked through his coat _and_ his jeans, which was great.

After some more aimless wandering around, which was basically what he’d been doing for the past however long before he found the park, he chanced upon a subway entrance. He didn’t have his subway card, nor any cash, but there would at least be a map to help him get his bearings and find his way back into familiar territory.

There were no trains currently in. The only person around was an elderly woman reading a paperback as she waited for the next train. The platform was almost eerily quiet. The digital clock on the wall beamed out the time in bright red: 16:49.

Okay. So it had definitely been longer than a couple of hours.

Heavily disconcerted by _that_ realisation, Noctis wondered if he should ask the old woman for some coins so he could try the shoddy old payphone by the stairs. He’d have to leap the barrier, though. Yeah, he wasn’t gonna do that. Being the prince didn’t put him above the law. Unless he had no other option.

He turned his attention to the map on the wall above the electronic ticketing booths. It was, of course, a map of the subway lines, rather than the streets, but if he could find a familiar station name nearby, it might give him some indication of where to go.

How had he been stupid enough to get himself into this situation? It would take him another four hours to get home, at this rate. Assuming the Crownsguard weren’t already performing a city-wide sweep to find him. Which made him somewhat of a fugitive, since he would literally do _anything_ to avoid the embarrassment of being picked up by a squad car like some drunk delinquent.

The map, luckily, offered him the slimmest of lifelines. The next station, nearest to this one, was Catula Street station, which Noctis knew to be the closest station to Prompto’s house.

It was a relief. In multiple ways. It occurred to Noctis that if anyone could understand his yuletide misery, it would be Prompto.

All he had was a vague direction in which to walk, but Noctis’ navigational abilities weren’t _completely_ terrible, when he was actually paying attention to where he was going. When he wasn’t absorbed in his own head, robotically putting one foot in front of the other. Walking just to feel like he was going somewhere, rather than to actually go somewhere.

He reached Catula Street within maybe twenty minutes (although Noctis now knew that his sense of _time_ was what was truly broken), and from there it was simple to find his way to Prompto’s house two streets over. By now, the sun was truly setting, though the persistent cloud cover prevented the sky from making a spectacle of it. The automatic street lights were starting to come on, as were the extravagant fairy lights strung up along the house fronts.

Noctis’ feet did their level best to kill him, of course, and his knee stiffened so badly that he had no choice but to limp. He tried to distract himself from the discomfort by thinking what a nice neighbourhood this was. Prompto may not have been nobility, or anything close to it, but his parents were far from destitute. The fact that they weren’t around much, Noctis supposed, was testament to how well the careers that kept them away paid.

Prompto had hung a string of twinkling lights along the eaves at the front of his house. It was modest, compared to some of the frankly overzealous displays Noctis had passed on his way here, but it was just such a Prompto thing to do.

The door swung open within a few seconds of Noctis knocking. Prompto didn’t say anything at first, just stood in the doorway biting his lip and staring at Noctis.

Then he said, “Dude, Ignis is going to _kill_ you,” and stood aside to let Noctis in. It was blessedly warm inside.

“Yeah, I know,” Noctis sighed, shrugging off his coat. Figures that Ignis would have called Prompto. “He hasn’t recruited the cavalry yet, has he?”

“Well, last I heard from him, he said something about royal protocols or whatever? Did you seriously _walk_ all the way here from your apartment?”

“Apparently,” Noctis grumbled, limping into the living room to sink into Prompto’s couch with a soft flump.

Prompto stood anxiously in the doorway. “I should probably let him know you’re here before he really does recruit the cavalry. Or at least the Crownsguard.”

“Good idea,” Noctis agreed, busy untying his shoelaces.

“Right. Uh. I’ll do that.” Prompto perched in his father’s arm chair (which his father so rarely inhabited), and fished his phone from his pocket, rapidly typing out a message. “I think it’s better if I text him,” he said airily.

Noctis snorted. “He’ll probably call.” He pulled off his first shoe, and then the sock, revealing angry red blisters on his heel and little toe.

Prompto sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Dude.”

“Do you have band aids?”

“Uh, of _course_ I do. In fact, I have the limited addition Li’l Malbuddy band aids, which are _kind of_ awesome? Wait here.” He left his phone on the coffee table as he practically skipped from the room to fetch aforementioned band aids. Who knew someone could get so excited about medical supplies?

Prompto’s phone started ringing right as he came back into the room with the box of plasters. He stopped dead and stared at it as if it were a bomb that would go off if he so much as breathed wrong.

Noctis sighed. “Just answer it.”

“I mean… if you say so.” Prompto handed Noctis the box and gingerly picked up the phone. “Heeeeeey, Iggy,” was how he answered it.

There was a pause as Ignis said something. Then Prompto held out the phone to Noctis, who was in the process of sticking cartoon malboro-patterned plasters on his feet.

“It’s for you,” said Prompto, grimacing.

Noctis mentally braced himself, then took the phone.

“So,” he began, “I fucked up.”

Ignis scoffed. _“You’re very lucky you weren’t five minutes later in arriving at Prompto’s house, or we would have had no choice but to involve the Crownsguard.”_

“Yeah. I know. Protocol, right?”

_“Right. As it is, the housekeeper, the chef, and all the kitchen and house staff are under the belief that you’ve been afflicted by a sudden and rather violent case of muscle cramps.”_

Damn. Ignis had blatantly lied to save Noctis from looking like an asshole—even though Noctis totally _deserved_ to look like an asshole, because he was one. “Thanks,” he said meekly. “You’re not… mad?”

_“Oh, I am, but there’ll be time for that later.”_ Ignis sighed through the receiver. _“You are… okay, aren’t you?”_

“Mostly,” said Noctis.

A long pause. _“Alright then,”_ Ignis finally said. _“I’ll be there soon.”_

“Okay. See you then.”

_“See you.”_

Noctis handed the phone back to Prompto with a muttered “thanks,” before returning his attention to his feet. The right foot was much more of a mission, considering how stiff his knee was. The pond in that park hadn’t yet frozen over, but the scarred ligaments in his knee seemed to have.

Prompto resumed his seat in the armchair. “So,” he began. “Ran away, huh?”

“That’s a dramatic way of putting it. I… needed to clear my head.”

“Did it work?”

Noctis didn’t answer right away, focused on pulling his socks back on. Then he sat back and stared at the blank television screen. “Not really. It never does. I just… I don’t know. I guess it’s less about clearing my head and more about… pretending like I can escape.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Prompto said softly. “That sucks.”

In the corner of the room, Prompto had put up a fake tree, and decorated it with a sort of childlike abandon. No consistent theme or colour scheme, like the professionally decorated trees in malls and on the downtown boulevard. Just everything thrown on there. There were two presents under the tree, with labels written in big block letters: TO MOM, on one, and TO DAD on the other. FROM PROMPTO.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Noctis asked. “This is, what, three years in a row that your parents haven’t been home for the Solstice? Don’t you feel… I don’t know. Resentful? Towards kids whose parents are always there?”

Prompto stared at him, taken aback. “I… I mean, yeah? Maybe a little?” he admitted, avoiding eye contact as he scratched the back of his neck. “I’m just used to it. Every family’s different. I mean… the last time they _were_ here for the Solstice wasn’t exactly a roaring success.”

“What happened?”

“Well, they seemed to have forgotten how old I was and got me candy and kids’ toys. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated the effort, but.. it was just a reminder of how little they’re here. How little they even know me.” He frowned. “I guess I can’t help but think of that every year they _aren’t_ here. But, if they aren’t, it at least means I get to spend the Solstice with you guys, right?” He grinned. “Plus, I get to pretend I’m someone actually worth knowing, by hiring a fancy suit and spending the night taking pictures of real-life famous people and eating… what are the fancy nibbly things called?”

“Hors d’oeuvres?”

“What?”

“Canapés?”

“Yeah… I’ll keep calling them nibbles. Point is, I guess I just try not to wallow in the bad things the Solstice reminds me of. There’s plenty of good, there, too. If nothing else, a _lot_ of children are super ridiculously happy on Solstice morning, so that’s something.”

Noctis couldn’t help but smile at that. “I guess you’re right. But I don’t know. Sometimes… sometimes positivity just doesn’t _work._ Like… like when you’re in a completely dark room, and you keep straining your eyes to see _some_ bit of light somewhere, but there’s just… nothing.”

Prompto bit his lip. “I know, dude,” he said quietly. “But you just have to keep, like, fumbling around in the dark. Because your phone’s probably on the floor somewhere, and once you find it, you can turn on the torch and… find your way to the bathroom. Until then you just have to… not piss yourself… I guess…?”

“Seriously?” Noctis snorted. “ _That’s_ the best analogy you can think of? Trying not to piss yourself?”

“You put me on the spot, dude, I was trying to run with it!”

Prompto looked so genuinely and hilariously offended that Noctis burst out laughing.

 

One of the worst parts about Ignis arriving was that Noctis had to put his shoes back on. It wasn’t comfortable, but he did it. To tell the truth, though, it was hard to be _too_ upset about the stinging in his feet when his knee was swollen and painful and reluctant to bend properly. Was he already so old that walking in cold weather was too much for his poor joints?

Well, no, he wasn’t. His knee—bone, cartilage, ligaments, and tendons one and all—had been partially decayed by starscourge, all those years ago. It wasn’t the kind of injury that ever recovered a hundred percent. His wrist wasn’t much better off, but he hadn’t been walking on his hands, so that one felt okay.

Ignis took one look at him as Noctis struggled to get up from the couch (until Prompto rushed over to help him) and shook his head.

“What have you _done_ to yourself?”

“Nothing that wasn’t already done for me,” Noctis grumbled. In that moment, he thought he knew a little of how his old man felt. The situations were different, of course. But Regis’ situation would be Noctis’ sooner or later. His was a zero sum game. And wasn’t that a cheerful thought?

Prompto, being Prompto, helped Noctis all the way to the car before bidding them goodbye. Thankfully, Ignis held his tongue on the drive back into the city proper, and helped Noctis get out of the car when they arrived back at the apartment building.

And who was waiting in Noctis’ apartment? Gladio. Of course. Before he said anything, he locked eyes with Ignis over Noctis’ head—and Noctis wasn’t sure exactly what wordless sorcery passed between them, but it was definitely about him, because it sort of always was.

“Refreshing walk?” Gladio asked Noctis.

“Yeah,” Noctis deadpanned, as he limped into the lounge, free once more from the tyranny of his shoes. He was definitely throwing them away. He’d give them to charity, but inflicting such blisters upon someone else didn’t seem all that charitable.

“I’ll get a heat pack,” said Ignis.

A couple of hours later, Noctis was situated quite comfortably in a nest of couch cushions, his knee propped up and wrapped in a warm compress; the pain dulled by painkillers; and his stomach full of chicken curry. Only then did Ignis and Gladio sit down and turn on their serious faces.

“So, Noct. Let’s talk about what happened today,” Gladio began.

Noctis frowned. He’d known this was coming. “Okay.”

Ignis laced his hands together over his lap. “I have no doubt you understand how irresponsible it was, to wander off as you did. Without your phone, and without leaving a note or any sort of indication as to where you’d gone and why.”

“Yeah, I know,” Noctis sighed. “Someone has to know where I am at all times because I’m the prince and I’m important and whatever, right?”

Gladio rolled his eyes. “Oh, Noct.”

“Noct,” Ignis began, “it’s true that, as prince, your safety is a matter of national security. However, wandering off as you did would be irresponsible regardless of who you were—because of the people who care about you, and worry for your wellbeing.”

Oh. Somehow, that part always slipped Noctis’ mind. Probably thanks to the incessant paranoia that told him his friends only stuck around because he was the prince, or because it was their job. He could never fully convince himself that people might actually, genuinely like him. Why would they?

“Right,” he managed to say.

“There is also the matter of failing to keep appointments,” Ignis continued.

“Well… to be fair, I hadn’t meant to stay out so long. I lost track of time. And I just… got lost.”

“Be that as it may, you very clearly didn’t feel up to keeping those appointments. You could have _told_ me you were feeling overwhelmed, Noct.”

Noctis looked down. He _had_ made a feeble protest—one more in line with that of a bratty prince. That was what he did. He left verbal breadcrumbs and expected those around him to somehow extrapolate the true meaning behind his words. It was too hard to say things outright.

“I think the biggest takeaway here,” said Gladio, “is, at the very least, to take your phone and leave a note next time—and don’t tell me there won’t be a next time, because I ain’t buying it. This kind of thing has happened before, and it will again.”

Noctis grimaced. Gladio was right: it likely would happen again.

“And if any of the staff ask, you have to pretend like you’ve had some _serious_ —what was it, muscle cramps?” Gladio continued.

“I mean… that won’t be too hard.” Noctis nodded down at his knee.

“And entirely believable, considering your refusal to eat any of the kinds of foods that contain magnesium,” said Ignis.

Well, yeah, that was because literally everything containing magnesium was green and disgusting. Like spinach. Or _kale_.

Ignis continued: “I’ll see if I can get you a physio appointment tomorrow morning. You may have seriously aggravated it.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Noctis insisted. “It’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.”

 

It was not. Noctis woke early the next morning with such pain in his knee that he knew he wasn’t getting back to sleep—but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get out of bed, either.

A few minutes after he woke, his phone buzzed on his bedside table. He grabbed it with some difficulty.

It was 6:24 AM, and he had a text from Ignis: _When you wake up, let me know how your knee feels._

He texted back: _OW._

Ignis replied almost immediately: _Told you._

Noctis rolled his eyes and shoved his face back into his pillow. He managed to fall into an uncomfortable doze, through which the ache in his knee never escaped his awareness.

He was woken again by a knock at his door. “Noct?”

Ignis, of course. Noctis groaned in reply.

“I got you an appointment for eight-thirty, and breakfast is on the stove.”

Noctis groaned again.

“Do you need help?”

“No.”

“If you insist.” There was a definite hint of amusement in Ignis’ voice. Noctis wondered for a second if he should be indignant, but he probably deserved it.

Getting out of bed wasn’t an issue after all, but he had to lean on the wall all the way to the bathroom, and the whole time he was in the shower. Which made things difficult, to say the least.

Ignis was serving up breakfast as Noctis limped into the living room.

“You must have walked over twenty kilometres yesterday,” Ignis commented. “In the cold, and with improper shoes. It’s no wonder your knee hurts so much.”

What Ignis said was more or less what the physical therapist said, an hour later, along with a lot of other stuff that Noctis was only half-listening to. He did pick up that his recent growth spurt, which had already caused enough trouble, had potentially been what opened the door so wide to the aggravations of cold weather and long-distance walking. Something about the scar tissue.

The physio lathered some strong-smelling ointment on Noctis’ knee, gave him some exercises to help reduce inflammation, told him to stay off his feet as much as possible until the pain subsided, and sent him to get a painkiller prescription.

They also gave him a crutch, which Noctis was not happy about. They tried to give him two, in fact, but he insisted that one was enough—the knee could bear _some_ weight, so two crutches was overkill. And would draw a lot of attention at tomorrow night’s banquet. Not that one crutch wouldn’t draw attention, just… not as much. Hopefully.

“On the bright side, the crutch helps perpetuate my lie quite nicely,” Ignis pointed out as they finally left the hospital.

Noctis snorted. “I can’t believe you _lied_ to the staff,” he said. “You should have just thrown me under the bus. Really. It wouldn’t have surprised them.”

Ignis was silent for a moment as they got into the car. “Aside from it being antithetic to my duty,” he said, “I could never bring myself to say something that might make anyone think poorly of you.”

What an Ignis thing to say. Noctis felt warmth rising into his cheeks. He busied himself with fitting the crutch into the car. “I guess that would go against your nature,” he said.

Rather than saying anything more, Ignis gently squeezed Noctis’ arm, then started the engine.

 

As always, Mr. Finley came through. He even personally delivered the suit to Noctis’ apartment on Solstice morning.

It was black, of course, from trousers to jacket to undershirt, but Mr. Finley had gotten a little daring with colour and given Noctis a cummerbund and bow tie in a shade of midnight blue that matched his eyes. The intended _dashing prince_ effect was ruined by the crutch, but there was nothing to be done about that.

Ignis came to pick him up at midday, then drove him to the Citadel, where they met up with Gladio and Prompto.

Noctis finally got to see the decorated banquet hall. It looked fantastic, of course. The tables and chairs were set out evenly, gold embroidery in the tablecloths sparkling under the chandelier light. Attractive but understated hangings lined the walls in the colour scheme Noctis had chosen—silver, gold, and blue.

Each corner of the room was occupied by a towering pine tree, resplendent in swathes of silver tinsel, indigo baubles, and twinkling golden lights. In the centre of the room was the Solstice Lamp, set upon an elegant marble pedestal which was, in turn, centred on a round black dais. A tiny trill of nerves shot through Noctis’ stomach at the sight of it, knowing that around five hundred of Insomnia’s finest (or at least most influential) would be watching him light it this evening.

The kitchen staff set up a lunch for them in the antechamber. They—and the house staff—were even more considerate of Noctis than they usually were, bringing him a pouf to rest his leg on, asking if he needed another cushion for his chair, or if there was anything in particular he wanted to eat. It was a little annoying, but he appreciated it. It reminded him of when he when he would get sick as a kid, and the household staff would make a fuss over him. Living on his own, the only one around to regularly make a fuss over him was Ignis. He didn’t miss it, per se, but it was strangely nostalgic. Definitely a strange thing to be nostalgic _about_ , but he’d had a strange childhood, to say the least.

After that, they went up to Noctis’ old room to waste time and get ready before the banquet. That was weird, too. He’d had little cause to come up here since moving, and nothing had really changed. The closet was still full of his childhood toys, books, and knickknacks. His old clothes had long since been donated, replaced with his collection of formal suits which were probably all too short for him now.

The room was, of course, a lot cleaner than he’d tended to leave it.

His knee ached and the painkillers made him drowsy, so, like the stellar host he was, he left his friends to their own devices and took a nap. It wasn’t nearly long enough before Ignis shook him awake and told him he ought to start getting ready. Though it hadn’t felt like he’d been asleep long, the shadows were quickly lengthening, and soon enough the timed motion sensor lights were flickering on.

Noctis was standing at the vanity trying to get his hair to behave when the main door creaked open, and King Regis stuck his head in.

“Dad,” Noctis said, surprised. “Uh. Happy Solstice!”

Regis chuckled, coming into the room. He was fully kitted out already—graceful as always in the royal mantle, despite the ornate cane in one hand. And despite the gaunt look in his face. Clearly he wasn’t yet back to full health after his stint with the flu.  

“Happy Solstice to you, too, my son. And to you,” he added to Gladio and Ignis, who bowed deeply (Prompto was, at that moment, in the bathroom getting into his hired suit). He nodded at the crutch leaning against the vanity. “It seems we match,” he said.

Noctis grimaced. “Yeah… whoops.”

“‘Whoops’ indeed,” Regis said sternly. “Anyway, I just wanted to see you before the banquet began. And to give you this.” He limped over and handed Noctis a small, flat box. “It’s not much. But I hope you appreciate it, all the same.”

Noctis opened it. Inside were golden cufflinks in the shape of the royal crest of Lucis, all the elaborate details flawlessly etched in fine black lines.

“Oh, wow,” he said. “Dad… thank you.”

“An heirloom,” Regis said proudly. “My father gave them to me on the first Solstice I ever hosted. Perhaps it’s a little trite of a tradition—but most traditions are. I find this one rather harmless.”

“Totally. Yeah. No—they look awesome,” Noctis stuttered. “Help me put them on?”

Regis smiled. “Gladly.”

 

Like most emotions, Noctis was terrible at expressing gratitude. But as he stood in the banquet hall later, surrounded by nobility and celebrity, flanked by his friends, leaning on his crutch, he could feel the cufflinks at the end of his sleeves like magical talismans. His father hadn’t mentioned how far back in the family line they went, but, having been possessed by a number of Lucian monarchs, Noctis wouldn’t have been surprised if the cufflinks had ended up infused with a little magic.

First was dinner, then dessert, then refreshments and dancing. Noctis was not a fan of dancing, so he was _more_ than glad to have a very good and very legitimate excuse to sit out. Gladio was Gladio, of course, and spent a good deal of time chatting up beautiful women resplendent in flowing evening dresses and sparkly jewellery.

“That guy has _no_ shame,” Prompto grumbled, sitting next to Noctis, sipping sparkling grape juice from a champagne flute.

“You can go talk to girls, too, if you want,” Noctis pointed out.

Prompto scoffed. “I _could_. Theoretically. But am I physically capable of making myself go do that? Uh, no. So I’ll just take nice pictures of them instead.”

Noctis exchanged an alarmed look with Ignis.

“Maybe don’t do that,” said Noctis.

As the dancefloor started to empty—and Gladio sauntered back to their table, smugly wiggling his eyebrows at Prompto—a messenger boy came to Noctis and asked if he was ready to light the lantern.

He couldn’t exactly say no, so he hauled himself to his feet and hobbled along to the centre of the hall, friends in tow. At the foot of the dais he found his father and Clarus. Regis already looked wan and tired from the festivities, but he grinned when he saw Noctis.

“It’s your moment,” he said.

Noctis smiled stiffly as butterflies erupted in his stomach.

People were already taking notice of the congregation by the lamp, but complete silence fell when the lights went down, leaving only the warm glow of the fairy lights on the trees. The Master of Ceremonies, a tall, stately man by the name of Claus, stepped up onto the dais.

“Ladies, Gentleman,” he said, in his deep, booming voice. “On this night, the longest night of the year, we feast. We celebrate the bonds between friends and family, in defiance of the darkness that gathers—”

While the MC said his spiel, Noctis handed his crutch to Gladio.

“You sure?” Gladio whispered to him. Noctis just nodded, too nervous to explain that he really didn’t want to have to haul himself up onto the dais like an invalid. He was supposed to be the prince, the successor to the throne. The future king. He could grit his teeth and deal with a bit of pain.

“—to light this lamp, I now present to you… Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, hundred and fourteenth of his line.”

The audience applauded. Noctis climbed the dais, one step at a time, but unassisted. He raised a hand to summon a flame, but then paused, heart hammering. Was he supposed to say something before lighting the lamp? Could he just light the lamp and leave? Was that okay?

He should probably say something. Just in case. “To another year of keeping the darkness at bay,” he said as loud as he could, voice wavering with nerves.

He summoned a flame. The crowd gasped, and he himself was taken aback by the plume of gold that flared up from his fingers. Even as the flame leapt into the lamp, it continued to shine golden, casting an ethereal glow across the crowd, glinting off jewellery, hairpieces, watches, and glasses.

There was an instant of awed silence, before another round of cheering and applause. The music struck up again, and the celebration entered its second wind.

As Noctis descended from the dais, he caught his father’s eye. Regis winked at him, then let himself be led away by attendants. Clearly he’d only been let out of bed for long enough to see his son light the lamp. Noctis understood, but he couldn’t help being disappointed all the same.

Gladio handed back the crutch, which Noctis gladly accepted.

“That was so cool!” Prompto enthused. “I didn’t know you could do that!”

“I can’t,” said Noctis, fiddling with his cufflinks. “Let’s go sit down.”

He left Prompto spluttering in confusion and made a beeline back to their table.

“So,” Ignis began, keeping pace beside him, “what’s your verdict on this year’s Winter Solstice?”

“Not as bad as I imagined it would be,” Noctis admitted. “It never is, I guess.”

**Author's Note:**

> Considering this was supposed to just be a quick little thing for me to vent my yuletide misgivings, it got MUCH LONGER THAN ANTICIPATED and I did an inordinate number of google searches for the most random things. It was kinda fun. I also did as much research about various types of chronic knee pain/injuries as my squeamish little mind could bear, but even for all that I'm not sure if Noct's knee thing is entirely plausible/realistic. I kind of mish-mashed parts of different conditions together. But I mean... does it _really_ matter?
> 
> Anyway, I hope you had a nice holiday, be it secular, non-secular, or non-existent, and I hope you get a good start to 2019!
> 
> EDIT: There was a scene from the first draft, written in Ignis' perspective. which didn't make the final cut. You can read it [over here](https://voxanonymi.tumblr.com/post/181613418511/unhappy-holidays-deleted-scene) if you're interested!


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